


We Might Be Hollow (But We're Brave)

by December_Daughter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/December_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six days ago, Felicity was kidnapped from the street outside her apartment; six days ago, Slade Wilson introduced himself and then proceeded to rewrite everything she knew to be true.</p>
<p>Six days ago, Felicity had thought she was going to make it out of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Look

**Author's Note:**

> So I posted a preview of this on my tumblr a little while ago, and it's taken me a bit but here's the first chapter (finally!). This is just something that has been kicking around in my head and demanded to be written, so ... yeah. Any mistakes are mine and I apologize. Let me know what you think?

Six days.

Six days Felicity has been here, locked in the gray room that has become her prison and denied anything more than some water and a few slices of bread; just the bare minimum to keep her alive. She only knows how much time has passed because he tells her - because every day when he comes to visit, he kneels in front of her and watches her with that one cold eye as he tells her what truth he’s going to teach her.

She was taken from the street outside her apartment six days ago, and as far as she knows there’s been no rescue attempt. Digg and Oliver have never taken this long before; that knowledge and the lack of nourishment have steadily eroded what little hope she started out with. 

Felicity is coming to terms with the very real possibility that she won’t be getting out of this one. 

She doesn’t even bother to raise her head when the familiar sound of footsteps moving over carpet reaches her ears. She doesn’t want to see his face and that stupid eye-patch; she doesn’t want to acknowledge the ugly truths and bitter words he’s here to throw at her. The handcuffs chafe and rattle on her wrists as she tries to shift away from him, to tuck herself even farther against the wall; it’s no use, she knows, but she does it anyway.

"Hello, Felicity," he greets, just as he always does. "The Six Truth on the Sixth Day."

Felicity can hear the rustle of his expensive slacks as he crouches down in front of her and tucks her chin into her chest, but the thick fingers reach out anyway and press into the underside, forcing her to look at him. 

"The Sixth Truth is that you are nothing, and he will save another." He waits for the information to sink in, for her to commit the words to memory like he’s commanded her to, and then speaks again. "What is the First Truth?"

She licks dry, cracked lips and tries to think about anything but what she’s saying. “The First Truth is that she saved his life, and he betrayed her.”

"The Second Truth."

"The Second Truth is that they were friends, and he failed her."

"The Third Truth."

"The Third Truth is that they were lovers, and he chose to save another."

"The Fourth."

Her throat feels dry and scratchy even as she can feel a hot tear slip down her cheek. She hates that she’s crying, that she can’t make herself impervious the way Oliver always seems to. Felicity had tried, at first, she’d tried so hard not to believe the things he told her and reassure herself that Digg and Oliver would rescue her - but now, now she has nothing left. In just six days, Slade Wilson has told her more about Oliver’s time on the island than Oliver has told her in the last two years; the first time Slade had used her name, Felicity had recoiled. Shado. Her heart had immediately understood something that her mind is only now realizing: two men had loved the same woman, and somehow Felicity is going to pay the price for a loss she had nothing to do with. 

"The Fourth Truth is that she …" her tongue trips over the words, throat thick with the tears that are trying to choke her. Felicity swallows and makes herself continue before he can. "… She died knowing that he didn’t save her."

What must she have felt in those last moments, Felicity wondered. Had Shado cried, knowing that someone she had called lover had forfeited her life?

Slade doesn’t need to prompt her to continue; he’s made her memorize these statements, and she knows that refusing to say them will only make what’s left of her life miserable.

She continues. “The Fifth Truth is that I will die knowing he didn’t save me.”

Slade nods and stands. “Good.”

Felicity isn’t expecting him to haul her up onto her feet and lets out a hoarse cry as she forces wobbly legs to function for the first time since her capture. He latches one wide hand around her wrists, the cuffs biting into skin that’s coated in dry blood from her first failed attempts to get them off. Their pace is too quick for her to get a feel for her surroundings, although she’s certain they are in an office building somewhere.

She’s thrown to her knees and automatically tries to stop herself with her hands; Felicity smashes her chin into the carpet, her mouth filling with the metallic tang of blood as she bites down on her tongue. She doesn’t bother trying to get up.

She closes her eyes. Oliver has never spoken of what he went through on that island, and she knew enough not to ask him about it because whatever it was, it was undeniably horrible. Now, though … now, she doesn’t know how to reconcile the Oliver she knows with the Oliver that Slade has presented her with. No one could make the choice that he was asked to make: choose one life over another. And yet … he had loved Shado; she knows he did. And Sara had been just a fling, his girlfriend’s little sister and someone he had already thought dead once … but Sarah is the one still alive. 

Felicity doesn’t want to think these thoughts anymore. Slade has done more than just starve her, more than bind her and render her powerless: he has made her doubt Oliver, and she’s starting to think that might be worse than everything else.

There’s a rush of air and a thud to her right, so she opens her eyes and is met with a mess of brown hair. She can’t make sense of what she’s seeing until the hair gets blown away from a face that she knows.

Laurel.

Felicity knows. Right then, staring into the angry face of Laurel Lance, she knows exactly what Slade has done and what’s going to happen; a raspy, bitter laugh works its way out of her throat as fat tears gather in the corners of her mouth, mixing with the blood.

She closes her eyes again, as if that will somehow make it all go away. 

The last six days make sense now. Slade calls them truths, but they were really lessons: if Shado, Oliver’s lover and someone that he loved, hadn’t stood a chance against the Lance sister who wasn’t “the love of his life”, then what hope does little Felicity Smoak have against the almighty Laurel? None. 

He’s disturbingly gentle when he drags Felicity off the floor and onto her knees. When she opens her eyes, Oliver isn’t more than five feet from her and Laurel, who has also been pulled to her knees. Oliver doesn’t have his hood up, and a detached part of Felicity realizes that Laurel has just found out his secret. 

She can’t find it in herself to care.

Laurel might say something – it’s probably a horrified version of Oliver’s name – but Felicity doesn’t care about that either. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor in front of her, determined not to look at Oliver or Laurel or anything else that will make this any more real than it already is. She doesn’t want to see the expression on Oliver’s face when he decides that her life isn’t worth more than Laurel’s. 

In that moment, Felicity isn’t sure whom she hates more: Slade, for putting them in this situation, or herself, for being angry with Oliver. 

Mostly, she thinks that she might hate Oliver for not caring about her enough to save her life. 

Oliver’s voice resonates from a deep corner of her memory, a ghostly reminder of a night that now seems like a lifetime ago: he had you and he was going to hurt you, he said. There was no choice to make. And she had believed him; she’d seen his face when he’d put those arrows in the Count, and he’d done that for her. But now … now, there is a choice. This time he has to make a choice, and she hates it. 

These might be some of the last moments of Felicity’s life, and she’s just realizing that she’s really, truly angry. She’s spent the last six days living in fear, but even that fear is being eclipsed by her anger: anger that this is happening; anger that Oliver is going to blame himself for whatever happens; anger that even now, despite her anger, she still cares about Oliver more than she wants to.

Mostly, Felicity is angry because she feels like she’s accepted her fate – like she’s given up. She’s been kidnapped, held against her will, denied food and water and now … now, she’s just tired and angry. 

A harsh jerk of the handcuffs around her wrists brings Felicity crashing back to the present. Slade is speaking, but as soon as she hears him say Laurel’s name she does her best to tune him out again. I don’t care, she tells herself. She repeats it, over and over again like it’s become her mantra and can protect her from what’s about to happen. Idon’tcareIdon’tcareIdon’tcare.

Slade kicks Laurel in the back to drive her to the ground as he simultaneously pulls Felicity to her feet, and she doesn’t miss the angry growl that leaves Oliver’s throat. She doesn’t have time to ruminate on it though; Slade reaches around her shoulders with his now free hand and grasps her chin, forcing her to raise her head. Please, she begs silently of no one in particular, please don’t make me look at him. She has to hold on to her anger, to the illusion that she doesn’t care, and if she looks at Oliver … if she looks at him, she’ll lose all of that. 

Felicity can do this – she doesn’t have a choice – but only if she can pretend that he’s not there.

“Don’t do this, Slade.” Oliver’s voice breaks over her like a wave, the first time she’s really heard him speak since his arrival. She knows him well enough to recognize the anger in his tone, and beneath that, the fear. “This is between you and I; just let them go.”

Knowing that Oliver is frightened – truly frightened – only makes this worse.

“You know that’s not how this works,” Slade answers over her shoulder. “You’ve been here before, Oliver. You know how this ends.”

“Please. Please, Slade.”

Before she can stop them, tears prick the back of Felicity’s eyes; Oliver said please. Such a tiny, innocuous word that she’s heard countless times in her life, and yet - hearing it now, the sound of it is like an anvil crushing her heart, because she recognizes it for what it is: Oliver is begging. Slade might not know it, Laurel might not know it, but she does.

Felicity knows it, and it’s the worst thing she’s ever heard. 

“Ms. Smoak and I have been getting to know each other these last few days, haven’t we, Ms. Smoak?” He jerks her chin painfully, perhaps to encourage her to nod, but she does nothing. “Of course, Ms. Lance and I have become good friends as well.”

One richly attired foot snaps out to kick at Laurel, who grunts and tries to scoot out of his reach. The other woman rolls onto her side and Felicity doesn’t look away fast enough; she makes eye contact with Laurel, notes the fire that’s raging in her brown eyes despite the tears that are falling unchecked down her pale cheeks. Of course Laurel is still fighting; the terrified little girl inside of Felicity wonders if, now that she knows that Oliver is the vigilante, she considers her safety a foregone conclusion. 

Does she feel pity when she looks at Felicity, in her bare feet and week old dress?

Does Laurel look at her and see a dead woman?

“Imagine my surprise,” Slade is saying, “when I discovered that the illustrious Laurel didn’t know about your alter ego. The woman you claimed to love over everyone – over Shado – and she knows nothing about you. Now, Felicity here, well … she knows more than you want her to, thanks to me. In fact, you have something to say to our dear Oliver, don’t you, Felicity?”

She knows what he wants her to say. 

Felicity doesn’t answer. The hand holding her chin disappears and then latches itself around her exposed throat, a wordless warning. She has to concentrate on swallowing, on forcing her throat not to close up in response to the pressure. 

“The First Truth, Felicity,” he goads. 

“No.” Her voice sounds broken and dry, but deceptively steady. The anger is taking hold again, accelerating her heartbeat until it’s like a dull thunderstorm in her breast; Slade has stripped her of any power, save this one, and she’s going to exert it. 

No more games; if Felicity is going to die, she’s going to do so on her own terms.

Slade is crazy, but he also seems to have figured her out. Instead of taking his anger out on Felicity, he directs it at Laurel with a swift kick to her gut. She wasn’t expecting that, and before she can protest, he kicks Laurel again, and again.

“Stop,” Felicity cries as loudly as she can, the word mimicked by Oliver. “Stop hurting her.”

“The First Truth, Ms. Smoak,” Slade hisses.

Felicity takes a deep breath that ends up sounding more like a sob. She can’t even fight this one small thing, because if she tries he’ll hurt Laurel; Felicity doesn’t really know or care about the other woman, except that she’s a human being, and Felicity can’t stand to be the cause of someone else’s pain. She can’t let Slade hurt Laurel because of something she does – or does not – do. That’s just not the kind of person Felicity is, even now, with her life on the line.

“The First Truth,” she starts quietly, “is that she saved his life, and he betrayed her.” She thinks the sharp inhalation of air she hears comes from Oliver, but she doesn’t lift her gaze from the carpet. “The Second Truth is that they were friends, and he failed her. The Third Truth is that they were lovers, and he chose to save another. The Fourth Truth is that she died knowing that he didn’t save her. The Fifth Truth …”

Felicity can’t go on. The first tear feels like it’s carving a path down her cheek and then her eyes are stinging as the flood gate of tears she’s been holding back suddenly springs open; every doubt, every fear that’s been slowly eating her from the inside out has come back to plague her. Her anger is gone, forgotten and swept aside in the face of her overwhelming desire not to be caught in this moment - to live.

More than anything, Felicity doesn’t want to die. She wants to beg for her life, but she’s terrified to think that she’s not sure if she would be begging Slade, or Oliver.

Slade jerks on her cuffed hands and she stumbles back a few steps, crying out when her left shoulder dislocates with a pop under the pressure. She doesn’t mean to, but her gaze automatically flies up and locks onto Oliver’s face, her proverbial anchor in the storm. He looks terrible, drawn and angry and hundreds of other things, but now that she’s made eye contact she can’t look away.

The hard press of something metal and foreign against her spine makes her sob, the first real one that can’t be mistaken for anything else, and the way that Oliver immediately takes a step forward lets her know that he’s heard it. 

“The Fifth Truth.” Slade shoves at her spine with the muzzle of what can only be a gun.

“The Fifth Truth,” Felicity stutters thickly, closing her eyes, “is that I will die knowing he didn’t save me. The Sixth Truth is that I am nothing, and he will save another.”

“Good girl. Now be quiet, it’ll all be over soon, all Oliver has to do is …”

“Don’t.” She’s not sure if it’s a plea, or a command, or something else entirely. She opens her eyes and finds that Oliver hasn’t looked away from her; those might be tears standing in his eyes, and that’s too much for her to handle. “Please don’t,” she says, and now she’s surely begging, “don’t say it.”

“Oh but he has to, Ms. Smoak, that’s how this works.”

Felicity truly, whole-heartedly doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about the pain in her shoulder, or the tears that are blinding her, or anything outside of this simple truth: any choice that Oliver makes will destroy her, as certainly as it will destroy him. If he chooses Laurel, it will kill her to know that he chose not to save her even before Slade has the chance to shoot her; if he chooses her, it will destroy her to know that her life has come at the cost of another’s. 

No matter what happens, they are about to lose … everything; that will be Slade’s true victory.

“Don’t choose,” Felicity pleads. “Oliver …”

It’s the first time she’s said his name in days, and it’s all she can manage.

“Look at me.” Oliver’s voice is strained, but she knows that he’s talking to her, so she does as he’s asked. 

When he speaks again his words are careful, measured; they shoot straight to her heart swifter than any arrow. “There’s no choice to make.”

Later, she’ll wonder if the words were some sort of cue. As soon as they’re out there, hanging in the still air that separates them, the ceiling seems to cave in; a huge crash sends her flinching backward as shards of glass rain down on them, glittering in the half-light of the room. 

Everything seems to happen at once after that: another figure appears in front of Oliver – Felicity thinks it might be Sarah – and then Slade is dragging her backward, away from everyone else. Felicity screams Oliver’s name, terrified, and hears her name yelled in response. The gun that had been against her back goes off next to her ear, and then she hears nothing but ringing. 

It’s strange, Felicity thinks, to be without one of your senses, especially one as crucial as hearing. There are flashes of light that she thinks might be muzzle flashes, but she can’t hear any shooting; neither Sarah nor Oliver use a gun, so she thinks Diggle must have finally arrived even though she can’t see him. 

Slade grinds to a sudden halt and Felicity slams into him, unable to stop herself or move aside because he’s still gripping her dislocated arm. She doesn’t have time to recover before he’s spinning her around and away from him, pinning her to his chest with one wide arm. Felicity blinks, confused, and feels his breath ghost against the side of her neck and one ear. 

She has just become a human shield.

The sight she’s met with should be reassuring, but it isn’t. Oliver, Digg and Sarah are standing in a loose half circle a few feet away, their weapons trained on her and Slade. Oliver still has his hood down, but she can’t see his face; she can’t see any of their faces. 

“Let her go,” Oliver commands angrily. Her ears aren’t ringing anymore, but it sounds like he’s speaking through a pillow.

“I don’t think so. One of them is going to die, Oliver, just like Shado.”

“I tried to save her!”

“Yet, somehow, she’s dead,” her captor snaps. “You failed her, just like you’ll fail Felicity. It’s who you are, Oliver, and now everyone knows it.”

“Shado’s death wasn’t Oliver’s fault,” Sarah counters, taking a step forward.

“Hold still!” Slade swings the gun in Sarah’s direction and she stops moving. “The next person to move gets a bullet between the eyes. Now Ms. Smoak and I are going to leave, and if any of you so much as think of following, I’ll kill her.”

“How do we know you won’t kill her anyway?” Diggle challenges. 

“You don’t.”

The end, when it comes, is sudden and wholly unexpected. The tiniest hint of movement draws Felicity’s eyes to the right, just over Sarah’s shoulder, but she never gets to find out what it is; there’s a split second where a look of horror crosses Oliver’s face and then Sarah is leaping forward, somehow both toward and away from Felicity. 

Slade’s pistol arcs through the air, aiming for Sarah, and Felicity sees what’s going to happen a spare second before it does. There’s no time to consider what she’s doing or even take a breath – she jumps up and backward, throwing her shoulder into the man’s jaw and the brunt of her weight against the solid wall of his body. His arm and weapon jerk wildly as he pulls the trigger, sending the bullet speeding straight up and away from Sarah.

Felicity doesn’t get to feel victorious; her heart drops into her stomach and then straight to her feet as her momentum carries her backward, on the same trajectory as the man who kidnapped her. Glass shatters behind her, her vision fills with a row of windows, and then she’s falling through cold night air.

Her ears are full of screams, hers or everyone else’s, or maybe it’s just the wind rushing past her ears; Felicity has never envisioned how she would die, but if she had falling to her death from an office window would not have been it.

At least she was able to save Sarah.

Felicity Smoak doesn’t get the luxury of any last words, but if she did, they would be that here, at the end, she’s not afraid anymore.


	2. Catch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up being shorter than I'd intended, but the chapter felt like it needed to end where it did. Sorry about the wait! Thank you for your interest in this, guys, I was blown away by your response! I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations, and I look forward to hearing what you think. :)

Far be it from Felicity to judge what happens when Death comes calling, but she has to admit – it's a little strange to see Oliver.

Granted, she's heard the cliché stories about how "your life flashes before your eyes", and true, she's never been able to prove or disprove that statement, but still; there's no precedent for this, no reason for her line of vision to suddenly be full of that familiar visage. She should see nothing but empty air, but instead … one second she's alone and the next, Oliver's face is above her.

Is it over? Did she close her eyes on her life, and open them in Heaven? If so, then why does she still feel like she's falling?

And why is Oliver here?

The sensation of hands closing around her calves like vices rips her out of the ethereal; her mind, over taxed and over stimulated, scrambles to make sense of the pressure on her legs, of the very solid fingers that are now digging into her.

Felicity feels like she's looking at her life through a kaleidoscope: Oliver's hands are walking up her body, his face coming ever nearer as they hurtle through the air, and everything about this is impossible. Oliver can't be here with her; those can't be his hands gripping her hips; how can such a thing be happening? Every second, every action presents itself like a fractal image in her mind, broken and disconnected and reflecting stolen light; she doesn't understand.

Oliver's arms loop around her waist and tighten, banding their bodies together, and those broken images suddenly fly together, as if magnetized; everything becomes startlingly, frighteningly clear.

She reaches for him, desperate, but her hands are still handcuffed behind her back and useless. There is no way for her to touch him, to cling to the person that embodies her salvation, with anything more than her eyes and a wordless plea from her heart: please save me.

"Hold on," Oliver yells next to her ear, his voice barely carrying over the screaming wind.

Only now, with his arms wrapped around her and his voice in her ear, does Felicity feel the truth of things take hold of her: he's here; Oliver is here, and she's not going to die.

She hears it, that same sound that heralded what she thought was the end: the cacophony of shattering glass. Only this time, she's flying into and not out of it. Felicity can't get her bearings – she has no idea what's up, or down – but she thinks that Oliver must hit the window first.

Together – a wrecking ball of momentum and limbs – they crash their way through an office, leaving a path of destruction in their wake. None of that matters to her, though: what matters is that when they finally stop and the nightmare ride is over, she can feel the scratch of worn carpet against her legs and the wild stutter of Oliver's heartbeat.

Or perhaps that's hers.

"Felicity?"

The moment she opens her eyes is the moment she realizes they were closed; her vision clears slowly, and though the room is dark, she starts to make sense of what she sees. Oliver is beneath her – both arms still clutching her tightly – and he's on his back, one shoulder half-raised against the support beam that must have stopped them. There's blood on his face that could belong to either of them, but his eyes are open and he's staring at her. Well, she's not sure if staring is the right word, but she can't think on one more fitting. His eyes are everywhere, without ever actually leaving her face.

He pulls himself up into a sitting position, carefully shifting her as he goes so that she's sitting in his lap; this close to him she can see that the blood belongs to him, trickling slowly from a gash along one cheekbone and up near his hairline. She doesn't move while he fumbles with the handcuffs, except once when he jars her dislocated shoulder.

Felicity is trying to concentrate on the physical: the stick-slide of Oliver's leather clothing against her legs and arms; the burn of air as it slides down her raw throat; and the steady, if erratic, beat of her heart that she can just make out over the blood rushing in her ears.

She's alive.

She shouldn't be – certainly didn't expect to be – but she is. She's alive, because of the man in front of her - because Oliver jumped out of a window to save her.

"I can't get the handcuffs off," Oliver says then. He sounds shaky; broken; it reminds her of the way he'd sounded when he'd first discovered Sarah was alive.

Once, when Felicity was a sophomore at M.I.T., she'd been boarding a plane to fly home for Thanksgiving when her mother had called her to say that her grandmother had passed away. The news had destroyed her; she hadn't been home in almost two years, busy with school and work and spending time with her friends, and then, just as she was on her way back, her grandmother had died. She'll never forget those hours on the plane, having to keep herself composed in a tiny seat, when all she wanted was to fly apart in grief.

She'd never before fallen apart the way she did that day, and only come close once or twice since then.

She doesn't fall apart that way now, although later she'll wish that she had – it would have been kinder.

Felicity doesn't fall apart at all.

Instead, she is unmade.

Oliver's confession, the distress and bald fear in his expression as he stares at her, is the catalyst: she can feel herself unraveling, disintegrating under his hands as she watches a lonely tear track through the blood on his cheek. Felicity should be crying, but she knows that she isn't, because nothing as simple as tears can remain in the wake of her devastation.

It's too much; everything she's heard, everything that's been said and done … it's more than she can take.

Oliver is still clinging to her when she hears the muted stomp of footsteps; Felicity thinks she might flinch, remembering what sort of things have accompanied that sound in the last week, but Oliver just tightens his arms around her. She can't feel anything beyond the physical – numb is not a strong enough word to describe her lack of anything resembling emotion – but if she could, she would appreciate the way he curls protectively around her.

Digg bursts through the door like a whirlwind, spotting them almost immediately. He crosses the room to kneel in front of Oliver, placing a gentle hand on Felicity's good shoulder and looking just as haggard as his friend. They pass a few seconds like that, Felicity motionless in Oliver's lap with one of Digg's hands resting warmly on her shoulder, until the sound of sirens fills the air.

"Oliver," Digg says, "you have to leave, before they get here."

Oliver ignores him. Sarah materializes in the doorway and Felicity finds herself checking the other woman for injuries. Thankfully, she looks unharmed.

"Ollie." She doesn't say anything else, but they all know what she's implying. The arrival of the police puts them both at risk.

Laurel's face appears just behind her sister's shoulder then, and the sight of the other woman evokes something visceral in Felicity; anger curls in the pit of her stomach and then is swiftly blown away, unable to take root in the wasteland that she has become.

Her thoughts turn to Slade Wilson, to the body that once housed his soul and is now undoubtedly splayed against the pavement outside; she is alive and he is not, but she wonders if he hasn't won after all. Felicity can see the effects of the last several minutes – the last several days, actually – in every face around her, and yet she feels … nothing. Where there should be sadness, or gratitude, or fear, there is only emptiness.

"Please, Ollie," Laurel urges.

"No." He doesn't say anything else.

Felicity can hear the police now, but only because she can make out Detective Lance's voice as he calls Laurel's name. She knows the moment Laurel hears her father: she turns away from them and takes a step toward her father's voice, then stops and glances back at the rest of them over her shoulder. Felicity can see the way Sarah wants to follow – can see how much the other woman wants to see her father as well – but she moves farther into the room, instead of out of it.

Sarah wraps a hand around Diggle's arm, tugging him to his feet even as he gives Felicity an apologetic look; they move toward the broken window together, where Felicity can just see a length of something that looks like rope hanging. Is that how Oliver saved her? With a leap of faith and a length of rope?

Sarah and Diggle disappear out the window. Felicity's heart gives a panicked somersault, even though she's nowhere near the window, and she makes herself focus on wondering what exactly her two friends plan to do. Are they going to scale the building, climb that rope back up to the floor they left so they can escape the same way Sarah arrived?

She should care about that – about the possibility that they will be discovered and apprehended – but finds that she doesn't.

Why doesn't she care?

Why hasn't she made Oliver leave?

"Dad!" Laurel calls, disappearing from Felicity's line of sight.

The answering call from Detective Lance seems to wake her from the trance-like state she's been in; she shifts against Oliver, the first time she's moved since their graceless crash.

"Ol …" her voice cracks, but she swallows determinedly and continues on. "Oliver. Go."

Felicity tries to unfold herself, to get her feet beneath her so that she can pull herself from his lap, but without the use of her arms she can't seem to manage it. Oliver misunderstands what she's trying to do, though, and rises to his feet (a little more shakily than usual, perhaps) with her held in his arms.

"Oliver." Her voice sounds a little stronger this time.

He puts her down gingerly, supporting more than half of her weight until he's certain that her legs aren't going to give out beneath her. "Hood," she commands, moments before the Detective pops into the room.

"Ms. Smoak!" Detective Lance calls upon seeing her. His eyes flick to Oliver, standing silently behind her like a sentry. What a sight they must present.

Oliver doesn't move as she makes herself cross the room to the Detective, who makes quick work of freeing her of the handcuffs. When she looks up again, Oliver is gone.

Felicity isn't allowed to leave; instead, Lance makes her wait for the paramedics to come up with a stretcher. He restrains himself to the most basic questions, even though she can feel his curiosity – his burning desire to ask her the real questions – like a current on the air.

She doesn't argue when the medics arrive and help her onto the stretcher. She settles against the white sheets as best she can and then closes her eyes as they make their way down and out of the building. Felicity keeps her eyes closed as they load her into the ambulance, but now it's because she's afraid to open them and find that Laurel is there. For reasons she refuses to examine, the idea of sharing a ride to the hospital with the other victim of Slade's scheming is overwhelming.

When Felicity finally finds the courage to open her eyes, she breathes an audible sigh of relief at finding herself alone.

Her relief turns to trepidation when, mere moments later, Detective Lance appears at the back of the ambulance and helps his daughter into it; Laurel is protesting even as the paramedic asks her to take a seat on the other stretcher.

"I'm fine, dad," Laurel insists, "I don't need to go to the hospital."

Felicity doesn't make a sound, but secretly she kind of sides with Laurel. The other woman looks tired and a little dirty, and there are pale bands of pink around her wrists where she was cuffed, but otherwise Laurel looks none worse for the wear.

Which is, of course, completely opposite of how Felicity looks – and feels.

Her attention is drawn away from Laurel when the paramedic returns to her side brandishing a needle. Felicity feels slightly ridiculous for tensing at the sight of it, considering what she's lately been through, but the reaction is automatic. She really hates needles.

"I'm going to give you a mild sedative," the young man tells her kindly. "It'll help with the pain in your shoulder until we get to the hospital. If it makes you tired, feel free to go to sleep."

Felicity nods and then pointedly looks away from the approaching needle. Her eyes fall momentarily on Detective Lance, who gives her an encouraging smile, and then she fixes her gaze on a point over his shoulder. She doesn't realize what she's looking at, at first; it's only when he moves, a subtle shifting of his shoulders, that she realizes that it's Oliver. He's perched on his motorcycle and tucked into the shadows just past the line of police tape, which is perhaps a bit of a daring move considering all the people around. His hood is up, but she knows that he's watching her; she can feel his gaze on her as if it has weight.

When Felicity finally looks away from him, the paramedic has moved away and Detective Lance has disappeared. Laurel is looking at her with an unreadable expression, or maybe she's just too tired to put much effort into figuring out what it is.

"Thank you," Laurel says quietly.

She doesn't ask her what for.

"You're welcome," Felicity rasps, and then closes her eyes.

She leans her head back and takes a deep breath, letting the drug wind its way through her system and weigh down her limbs.

Felicity is asleep before the ambulance starts moving.


	3. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took me so long, I was concentrating on finishing my other multi-chapter fic so this one kind of fell by the wayside for a bit. This update is short, but I figured better than nothing. I'll work on getting the next update posted much sooner. :)

The first time Felicity wakes, her arm is in a sling and there’s a doctor standing at the foot of her bed reading her chart. The IV in her right hand makes her whole arm feel cold, so she works on dragging the blanket higher up her torso as she tries to ask how long she’s been out. Her head is fuzzy and she thinks that her words might not make sense, but the physician seems to understand what she’s asking.

 

She’s shocked to find that she’s been sleeping for the better part of the last thirty- six hours. The doctor tells her that the medical staff is working on rehydrating and providing her body with much needed nutrition through the IV’s, and to go back to sleep – that her body needs the rest to convert the nutrients to white blood cells; so she does.

 

The second time Felicity wakes, Diggle is half-sitting on the right side of her bed and idly flipping through television channels. Oliver has his head down, forehead braced against arms that are crossed and propped on the other side of the bed; he looks to be sleeping.

 

Her tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of her mouth, so it takes her a few tries to speak. “That’s a terrible show.”

 

Digg’s head whips around to look at her. He smiles, but she sees the worry. “Hey,” he greets softly. “Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.”

 

“How …?” She lets the sentence hang, unsure of what she wants to ask first. There are so many possible ways to finish that question: how long has she been out? How is Laurel? How long have they been there?

 

_How do I get through this?_

She doesn’t know how to ask those questions, though, or if she really even wants the answers, so she says nothing. Oliver must be exhausted because he’s still asleep. Felicity looks at him – really looks – and thinks that she might not want to face him.  What if he asks questions? What if he doesn’t?

 

Either option sounds just as terrible as its counterpart. For the first time in a long time, Oliver’s presence doesn’t do much in the way of reassuring Felicity. She appreciates that he has probably been here for a while, and visited more than once, but his presence at her bedside makes her feel anxious and overwhelmed. If he’s here then he’ll expect her to deal with everything that’s happened; even if he doesn’t say anything, every time she looks at him, Felicity will expect it from herself.

 

It feels as though an anvil has come to rest on her chest; every time she takes a breath her lungs feel like they’re going to collapse. The staccato of her heartbeat is painful.

 

Felicity tips her head back against the pillow and then Diggle appears above her, the definition of calm. He wraps one of her shaking hands in his just as she feels Oliver shift.

 

“Breathe, Felicity,” Diggle commands quietly. “In through your nose. You’re safe. Deep breaths.”

 

She nods – _deep breaths, okay, good, I’m listening_ – and then Oliver’s face appears next to Diggle’s. Much like the last time she’d seen him, he looks bedraggled and tired and a little panicky; Felicity closes her eyes, unable to look him in the eye. He’ll ask her what’s wrong and she doesn’t have an answer.

 

No, she has _too many_ answers. She won’t have an answer when he asks her how she feels, or what happened, or if she’s okay.

 

How can she find the words to adequately explain that the sight of him makes her feel raw?

 

Felicity lies there with her eyes closed for what feels like a long time. Diggle keeps up a quiet, reassuring string of words the entire time; Oliver starts to say something at one point, and then quickly falls silent in a way that makes her think that Digg did something to silence him.

 

Diggle is the only one in the room when she opens her eyes again. He smiles kindly at her and squeezes her hand reassuringly.

 

“We’ll give you some space. Call if you need anything, okay?”

 

“Thank you,” Felicity replies. The words feel like a paltry attempt to express her gratitude for the inherent understanding her friend seems to possess.

 

“Your mom should be here in a few hours. Spend time with your family, get out of the city. Take as much time as you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

 

Digg releases her hand and moves toward the door, but half turns to look at her when she stops him.

 

“Digg?” she calls. When she has his attention, she continues, “will you tell Oliver … that I’m sorry?”

 

He gives her a small nod and leaves.

 

Felicity watches her friend disappear down the hall and wonders what exactly she’s apologizing for.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Four days after she was admitted, Felicity leaves the hospital with her mother.  Maggie Smoak spends the entire drive – to Felicity’s childhood home an hour outside the city – with one hand on her daughter’s knee and an instinctual knowledge not to prod her daughter for information.

 

When they arrive, Felicity’s sister is out the front door and halfway to the car before it’s stopped rolling. Evie doesn’t quite rip her out of the passenger seat, but Felicity does find herself wrapped in a breathless hug rather suddenly.

 

“Oh my God, you’re okay. Right? Are you okay? Because it’s okay to not be okay.”

 

“Evie,” Maggie chides.

 

“It’s fine, mom,” Felicity says. She’s not sure if that’s true or not, but it should be, so she says it anyway. She hugs her sister again. “I’m happy to see you, Vee.”

 

Felicity hasn’t brought much from her apartment, mostly clothes and some of her gadgets; her parents always keep her room ready for her visits home, and most of the stuff that wouldn’t fit in her apartment was left here. Evie swipes the handle of her suitcase from her and leads the way into the house, making a beeline up the stairs to her bedroom.

 

“Are you hungry, sweetie?” Maggie questions, dropping her purse and keys on the table in the entryway before moving into the kitchen.

 

“I’m okay for now, mom. I think I’m just gonna take a nap.”

 

Felicity knows that her mom wants to ask her what happened, but something keeps holding her back. She has no idea that it’s her: the disinterested way she takes in her surroundings, the huge dark circles under her eyes and almost sluggish quality of her movements. Felicity knows only that her mother aches to know, yet will not ask, and she’s glad. She isn’t off the hook; the only reason that the police department even allowed her out of the city is because her mother begged, pleaded and threatened them into submission. Felicity has a feeling that Detective Lance may have had something to do with it as well, and she reminds herself to thank him for that later. The investigation into her kidnapping and Slade’s death is still open, and she can’t avoid everyone’s questions forever, but she’ll hold them off for as long as she can.

 

“Okay. Your dad will be home in a few hours and then we’ll have dinner.”

 

Felicity watches her mother bustle around the kitchen for a minute, opening drawers and handling dishware that she memorized in childhood. Maggie Smoak is a graceful woman – far more so than her eldest daughter – and the fluidity of her motions is both familiar and comforting to Felicity. She looks at her mother and feels the first pulse of true emotion since the first days she spent in Slade’s custody: love. Love for her mother, for her father and sister and even her childhood home – people and things she had been convinced, not so long ago, that she would never see again.

 

Felicity half throws, half trips herself into her mother, then, who catches her easily. She doesn’t cry; just holds her mother tightly, breathing in the fruity shampoo that Maggie has always loved.

 

“I love you, mom,” Felicity tells her earnestly.

 

“I love you, too, baby girl.” Her mother hasn’t called her that in a long time.

 

“’City, your shit’s in your room!” Evie yells from the top of the stairs.

 

Maggie sighs into Felicity’s hair. “I don’t know if your sister just loves to swear, or if she does it because she knows I hate it.”

 

“She’s nineteen,” Felicity answers. “So the answer is obviously both.”

 

Felicity doesn’t think about her life in Starling City for the rest of the night. 


	4. Going Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to my beta, Tanya, for all her help. :)

There’s a breeze sweeping through the treetops above her. She can’t feel it; the only evidence of its passing is the swaying and soft rustle of branches as they move against one another. Felicity keeps her eyes closed but tilts her chin up, toward the sound. The air smells like pine and impending rain. She pulls the quilt she’s brought tighter around her shoulders and tips her head back farther, until it comes to rest against the back of the lounge chair, and listens to the world move around her.

 

Sitting still has never been a problem for Felicity. As a child, this spot had been one of her favorite places to sit and do her school work, or read, or just look out over the lake behind their house and imagine. She is not surprised to find herself here now, searching for that same tranquility and ease of spirit that she’s long associated with this area.

 

Felicity has been here for hours, though, and has yet to find either of those things. It’s cold out – not quite freezing, but far from warm – and she’s probably going to catch a cold, but she doesn’t care. She needs the tenuous connection to nature that she’s trying so hard to cultivate; she needs to feel connected to something, because it frightens her how removed she feels from everything. It frightens her to look at the world, and see it moving, and feel like she is standing still.

 

She is frightened because part of her is still stuck in that gray room.

 

“’City, come inside!” Evie calls.

 

Felicity startles and slams her elbow into the wooden back of the lounge chair. Her eyes fly open and for just a second she expects to see an office building, or an eye patch, but all she sees is water; water reflecting pale sunlight, and tall pine trees.

 

She sighs and unwraps herself to head inside. The solitude hasn’t helped her in any way, save one: she has decided on what to tell her family about her ordeal. She’s finally found a way to tell them the truth without giving anything away. Not a lie, and not the full truth, but the gray area in between.

 

Gray words, gray rooms; so much gray, where once there was only color and light.

 

“Your phone rang a few minutes ago,” Maggie tells her as she steps inside. “I didn’t answer it. It’s on the kitchen counter.”

 

“Thanks, mom.”

 

Felicity glances in the direction of her phone, wondering who would call and whether or not she wants to find out, and is saved from making the decision when her father appears and pulls her with him to the couch.

 

“You’re a popsicle,” he teases lightly, hugging her to his side.

 

“Don’t you mean icicle?” Felicity quips, snuggling closer to her father’s broad frame.

 

“Nope, definitely popsicle. They’re much better.”

 

She manages a weak smile – they all feel weak, now – and tucks her feet up underneath her.

 

“What does everyone want for lunch?” her mother asks.

 

“Before you do that, mom, can you come over here for sec?”

 

Felicity feels three sets of eyes turn immediately to her. The scrutiny makes her uncomfortable but she bears it quietly. Her mother comes in from the kitchen and sits down on the loveseat with Evie; her sister looks anxious and a little curious, but her mother just looks worried. She doesn’t dare look at her father.

 

A part of her – the cowardly, weak part of her that Slade had thought to exploit – wants to run away from this conversation. Felicity acknowledges it, virtually shakes its hand as if to say “I know you are there, I see you”, and then pointedly tells it to shut up and sit down. This is her family, and they deserve whatever answers she can give them.

 

“The man who kidnapped me said I reminded him of someone.”

 

_Different looks, similar temperaments,_ he’d said. _Same talent for managing a man who’ll always be a spoiled brat._

 

Felicity tells her family what she can. She re-words and re-labels the truth in ways that won’t give away her connection to the Starling City vigilante. Diggle and Sarah she leaves out of the story completely, as well as the part where she basically catapulted herself and her captor out of a window.

 

The part where she killed a murderer to save a life that wasn’t her own.

 

Her father holds onto her tightly, and when she’s done speaking he kisses the crown of her head and refuses to let anyone ask questions. Felicity buries her head in his shoulder, exhausted and unable to block the memories, but grateful for the comfort of her father’s embrace.

 

The sharp trilling of her phone interrupts the silence that has engulfed the Smoak family.

 

“Should I get it?” Evie questions. “See who it is?”

 

“Sure,” she mumbles into her dad’s shirt.

 

Her sister goes for the phone and Felicity tries not to hold her breath. She’s afraid of who it is, and who it isn’t.

 

“The ID says Detective Lance.”

 

Well, that doesn’t leave her with much choice, so she holds her hand out for the phone.

 

“Hello, Detective,” Felicity greets.

 

“Ms. Smoak,” the Detective answers warmly. “How are you holding up?”

 

Felicity wishes she knew. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

 

He doesn’t seem to mind the brush off. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we need you to come back to Starling. I realize five days isn’t enough time, but I’m afraid it’s all I could get you.”

 

Has it really been five days? It feels like much less, and infinitely more.

 

“I understand, Detective. Thank you. Do I need to come in to the station?”

 

“Nah, the Captain’s gonna let me come to you. Let me know when you get home.”

 

“Will do. Thanks again, Detective.”

 

Felicity’s chest tightens uncomfortably. She hadn’t considered how long she would stay with her parents, but she’d hoped it would be longer than this.

 

She doesn’t want to admit it, but – like so many other things in her life, now – the thought of going home terrifies her.   

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Talking to Lance is different than talking to her family.

 

She calls him the second she’s in her apartment and has watched her mom drive off. Her mother had repeatedly asked Felicity if she wouldn’t feel better with one of them staying with her for a while; Evie had begged to come stay with her and then resorted to logical arguments for why her presence was necessary. She’d waved away all their protests and smoothed over all of their concerns with an equanimity that didn’t extend past the surface. Felicity doesn’t want to be alone, but this whole ordeal has opened her eyes to what her life has become: dangerous. The closer she keeps her loved ones, the more danger they’ll be in.

 

Felicity knows (and has accepted) that her life has taken on a new level of peril since she began working with Oliver, but she had never appreciated just how perilous it had become until Slade had shown her. She’s always considered herself somewhat removed from the danger - unless she does something stupid and puts herself there – because of her position behind the scenes. Now, though … well, she’s not as safe as she’d once thought.

 

So as much as she wishes her sister were here to blare loud rock music and cover her kitchen table in paintbrushes and jellybeans, Felicity has resigned herself to being alone. Evie and her parents are safe, and that will have to be enough.

 

Detective Lance doesn’t keep her waiting long. Their conversation is much harder for her to sit through; this man knows (most) of the truth concerning her relationship with the vigilante. Lance knows about Sarah, too, and it’s a new level of Hell for her to sit through a retelling of the events that directly concern both of his daughters.

 

Lance only asks her the questions he has to, and his compassion shows clearly on his face as he guides her from one question to the next. As she gets near the end of her retelling, though, to the part where she has to describe the events that lead to her plunge out the window, Felicity stalls. She looks away from the kind man sitting across from her and down at her shoes, focusing on them instead. He doesn’t press her to continue.

 

Quentin Lance is an ally – a friend, even – and yet there are so many parts of her story that she has left out; there is still so much he doesn’t know. So much he will never know; just like her family. Felicity has never had to do this before: selectively decide who gets to know what information, and then try to remember what she’s hiding and from whom. She’s starting to wonder if she should design some sort of program that she can use to keep track of all the lies and half-truths.

 

How does Oliver do this?

 

He has her. Well, her and Diggle, the only two people – in all the world, possibly – that know both sides of his persona; the only two people that could, conceivably, bear the weight of his secrets without crumbling.

 

At least, Felicity had thought that she was one of those people, until Slade Wilson had snatched her off of a sidewalk.

 

“Ms. Smoak?”

 

Right. The window; she has to tell him about the window.

 

“Uh,” Felicity clears her throat. “Right. So. Sarah was there, like I said, and they were standing, maybe, ten – fifteen feet in front of me.” She’s remembering all three of them, but doesn’t mention Digg and lets the Detective think she’s only referring to the Arrow and Sarah. “And Slade threatened to shoot if they moved. Then ... I don’t know what happened, there was movement or something behind Sarah. I couldn’t see. And he was gonna … he aimed his gun at Sarah, ‘cause she moved toward me. Or maybe it was away. Anyway. So I threw myself back, and hit him in the chest, and then …”

 

Then there had been breaking glass and cold air; the rushing wind as she plummeted; fear, and then an overwhelming numbness.

 

“Then you both went out the window,” Lance finishes. “And then you ended up in another office, five stories below the one you started in. How did that happen?”

 

Felicity inhales, and the air feels like it is catching fire in her lungs; she laces her fingers together in her lap and squeezes them until it hurts. Detective Lance has just given her an answer to a question that she has not once thought to ask: how far she had fallen. Now, she has the answer, and he’s asking her for another one: how did she survive?

 

She had fallen roughly fifty feet, and the only reason that she’s alive right now is because of Oliver; because he had jumped out of that same window to save her life.

 

Well that’s just … that’s too much. Felicity stands and starts to pace in the area in front of her couch, wringing her hands thoughtlessly as she tries not to panic. _Who the hell does that?_ She asks herself. _He had no way of knowing if he would reach me._

 

“Please, Felicity,” Lance calls, and the distress in his voice finally gets her attention.

 

He’s standing with his hands out, as if he had started to reach for her and then thought better of it. She stops pacing so that she can look at him – she means to reassure him that she’s fine, but the look he’s giving her cuts her off before she can begin. Lance knows that she’s not fine, and Felicity recalls a fact that she sometimes forgets where he’s concerned: he’s a father.

 

The Detective reaches out to put one weathered, warm hand over her own, which are still clasped in front of her.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her gently. “I realize this must be upsetting. We can stop, I can come back later.”

 

“No. I don’t want to have to sit through this again.”

 

Lance nods and then takes a seat on the couch behind her, pulling her gently down next to him. “Okay. We’re almost done.”

 

A voice that sounds exactly like Digg silently reminds her to breathe, and Felicity sets her shoulders in determination. She can do this; she can get through this. She has to get through this.

 

In a bit of a rush, Felicity tells Lance about the Arrow suddenly appearing above her. She relates how he basically plucked her out of mid-air and then swung them through a window and into that office, where Lance himself had found them only moments later.

 

When she’s finished, the silence in her apartment feels simultaneously comforting and overwhelming. The memories feel as if they’re tangible, as if they’ve taken on a physical form and are now camped out in her living space, demanding her attention.

 

When did her memories become ghosts?

 

“Thank you.” Detective Lance’s voice is layered and thick, and when Felicity looks at him there are tears standing in his eyes.

 

“What? I mean, you’re welcome, I guess, but what are you thanking me for?”

 

“You saved Sarah’s life.”

 

_And almost died for it,_ he doesn’t say, but she hears it anyway.

 

“It was Laurel,” he continues then. “The movement, behind Sarah. She was trying to get to the phones when Wilson saw her.”

 

Felicity doesn’t know what to do with that information. Truthfully, she doesn’t much care; in the long list of things that had happened, Laurel being the catalyst that sent Slade over the edge doesn’t matter. Felicity probably would have done the same thing if they’re situations had been reversed.

 

“How is Laurel?” Felicity queries, more out of politeness than an actual desire to know.

 

“Shaken, but mostly okay.”

 

“Good.” She wonders how true that is, considering that Laurel now knows that her ex-boyfriend is the vigilante, but doesn’t pursue it further.  

 

Does that mean she also knows about Sarah?

 

Lance sits with her for a little while longer. When he leaves, he does so with another apology for making her relive the experience and the assurance that she is welcome to call him any time, day or night, and for any reason. It’s a kind offer, so she accepts it with an approximation of her usual smile and then wishes him a good day.

 

Felicity has barely closed the door when her phone starts to ring. She pulls it out of the back pocket of her jeans and feels the air rush out of her lungs when she sees Oliver’s name displayed on the screen.

 

She ignores it.

 


	5. Restless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this update took forever - sorry about that! I didn't want to update until the story was finished. There are two chapters after this one, which will be posted by the end of the week. Hope you enjoy. :)

Felicity can’t sleep.

In the last three hours, she’s memorized every pattern in her white stucco ceiling and mentally written a poem to the steady ticking of the clock on her nightstand. Fed up and resigned to her sleeplessness, she finally crawls out of bed a little after two a.m. and decides to cook the bacon in her freezer.

With nothing but the sizzling strips of meat to keep her occupied, Felicity’s thoughts soon turn to the subject that has been plaguing her all night: Oliver. More importantly, the Oliver of Lian Yu - the man who had loved Shado, the man whom Slade had once called a friend. What sort of person had he been back then? What had really happened to Shado?

Then, as so often happens these days, her thoughts turned inevitably to Shado. Felicity wishes that she could have known this woman, whose death had incited a nightmarish feud and nearly cost her her life; she wishes that she could ask her questions - she has so many questions.

Mostly, she just wishes that Oliver’s yacht had never crashed, or that he had never gotten on it in the first place.

Felicity wanders aimlessly through her apartment, taking in the environment as if she was a stranger: the shelves of neatly stacked DVD’s in her entertainment stand; the abstract watercolor paintings on her walls, all of them the work of her sister; various pieces of technology, like her tablet and laptop and motherboards, scattered haphazardly over the flat surfaces. Such a strange, yet familiar mix of elements. If she were to visit Oliver’s room, would it be like this? Little trinkets, personal touches spread over expensive furniture?

What sort of pictures does he have, she wonders. Family gatherings, holidays, yearbook photos?

She can’t take the inactivity, then, the confines of her apartment and silent shadows that lurk in the corners. Quickly, before she can think herself out of it, Felicity shoves her feet into a pair of sneakers without bothering to change out of her sweats and tank top. With her keys and wallet in hand, she sweeps out of her apartment like a whirlwind.

Crossing the deserted parking lot to her car feels impossible. Felicity feels like she’s moving through tar as she forces one foot in front of the other, refusing to let her eyes wander to the spot on the sidewalk where Slade snatched her. I will not look, she tells herself. I will not give him that victory.

She trembles a little as she drives, turning up her music - and the heat - to combat the tide of fear. She should have brought a jacket.

Felicity parks behind the club, as she always does, and lets herself into the basement through the side door. As oppressive as it was in her apartment, the silent darkness of the lair greets her as an old friend; she is safe here, among arrows and glass cases. Her footsteps are quiet, though not silent, as she makes for her desk and computers. She turns on only the light above her work station.

Felicity asks herself why she’s here as she boots up her computers. She thinks she might not have an answer, until she turns her head and sees that stretch of green leather that has come to mean so many things to her. She adjusts her glasses as she moves to stand in front of the outfit, studying it with new eyes until she finds herself staring at one thing in particular: the hood.

Shado’s hood.

In a rare moment of something close to humanity, Slade had told her the story in minced words: how he had given that jacket - that hood - to Oliver after Shado’s death. Because she had loved him, Slade had said. Years had passed, but Felicity had still been able to hear the bitterness in the other man’s voice when he’d said those words. Slade had loved Shado, Shado had loved Oliver, and Oliver … had he loved Shado?

Felicity’s not sure why she does it. In fact, she doesn’t realize what she’s doing until the fabric is brushing against her open palm, and even then it feels as though she’s watching from a distance. The jacket slides easily off the mannequin; it’s heavier than she would have guessed. Felicity draws the item close to her chest, studying the details she’s never stood close enough to notice and running her fingers over the puckered seams.

Oliver had loved Shado. Maybe not the way Slade had loved her - maybe not even the way Shado had loved him - but he had loved her, and the proof is in her hands. Being the vigilante is important to Oliver, more important than almost everything else in his life, and he has made Shado a part of that; Felicity doesn’t need to ask to know that Oliver carries her with him every day. She knows, because she sees it - she just hasn’t understood until now what it is.

The jacket smells a little like Oliver when she puts it on. Felicity had foolishly hoped that it would smell differently; like a woman, perhaps. She’d hoped that she would find some connection to Shado - that she would put on the jacket and feel some kind of otherworldly kinship with the woman who had left such an unforgettable impression.

But no; whatever traces of Shado that may have once lingered have been erased, and replaced. Felicity smells only Oliver. She pulls the hood up over her head, surrounding herself with him in a way that she never has before, and feels comforted. It’s the first time in a long time that the thought of him hasn’t made her heart constrict; the first time that she can think about him in terms that have nothing to do with islands, or free falls, or panic. 

Then she hears the footsteps.

Felicity does not have the words to describe his expression when he sees her, and in his hood, no less. They stand facing each other, frozen, for breathless moments.

“I …”

She doesn’t know what to say, so she stops trying and tucks her chin in, hiding her eyes from his gaze and inadvertently filling her nose with the smell of Oliver. The brush of the fabric against her hair reminds her of why she’s here.

“He, uh, told me. About the hood. That it was he … Shado’s.” One of the things that she’ll never forget is the way Slade Wilson had avoided saying her name - how much it had scared her to hear him talk about how much he’d loved her, but avoid saying her name. Unless he’d wanted to make a point with it; unless he’d wanted to use it against her. Because he had: Slade Wilson had used the name of the woman he’d loved to poison Felicity against Oliver. He had wanted to make her believe that Shado’s death had been Oliver’s fault; that he could have done something differently to save her life. That he should have let Sarah die instead.

For the span of a moment - just one small, insignificant moment that she wishes she could forget - Felicity had believed it too. She had thought that maybe, if Oliver had made a different choice all those years ago, Slade would never have kidnapped her; she would never have been held at gun point. For just that tiny moment, Felicity had given in. She’ll never be able to get that moment back; she’ll never be able to forget it.

Even if he never knows it, whenever Felicity looks at Oliver now, she sees that moment of weakness - her weakness. She looks at him, and wonders if he can sense her failure.

“Felicity.”

The force of her reaction stuns her. It’s just her name; a few syllables, uttered by a voice that’s familiar despite it’s brokenness; yet it tears through her like a bullet. Oliver’s voice does what nothing else has managed to do in days: it spans the desolate wasteland that has opened up within her and connects her to something.

To him.

Felicity tries to cover her mouth to choke off the sob. She buries her face in green fabric that smells like him and wishes that she had never come, that he had never shown up, that she could fall into …

Oh. _Oh._

Sometimes, the universe does strange things, like give her things before she realizes that she needs them. That’s the only explanation she has for why she’s suddenly in Oliver’s arms, pressed tightly against his chest as his heart thunders away against her cheek. It feels like the withered husk of her heart starts beating again for the first time since she went out that window.

Felicity sobs and shakes as if she’s an earthquake with a soul. She cleaves to Oliver, or he does to her, and for a long time she knows nothing but grief.

The first thing she becomes aware of once her tears have stopped is a horrendous concerto being conducted behind her eyes that would make Beethoven drool; the second is the complete inability of her legs to hold any of her weight. She’s resting fully against Oliver, who hasn’t made a sound since that one utterance of her name. Part of her thinks she should move - is insisting that she do exactly that - and so she purposely holds herself as still as she can.

Felicity is wrapped in Oliver’s hood, in his arms and his scent, and the part of her that isn’t drowning in panic feels reassured. She’s been running away; running from what happened, from the words Slade has put in her head, but mostly, she’s been running from people: Oliver, and Digg, and Laurel and Sarah and anyone else who might see her fear - and her doubt. She doesn’t want to acknowledge it - doesn’t know how - because, maybe, if she denies it long enough, it’ll just go away. Maybe, if she stands here long enough, Oliver will make it better.

Maybe he can save her again.


	6. Baby Steps

“Hey.”

Felicity’s eyes still feel puffy and dry when she looks up and finds Digg standing not far from her, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit pants. He’s not smiling, exactly, but the curve of his mouth makes her think that he wants to. 

“Hey, Digg,” she answers thickly. She stopped crying a while ago, but the evidence of her breakdown has stuck around. 

“Were you asleep? I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were.”

“No, no, I was awake,” she assures him, straightening up in her chair. She’s been awake off and on for most of the day, so it’s not a lie. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He pulls up one of the spare chairs and sits down the wrong way, crossing his arms over the back of the chair. “You been here all night?”

Felicity glances up to check the time on her monitors, which inform her with their usual technologic impassiveness that it is indeed morning. She passes a hand over her hair, which she’d pulled into a hasty ponytail some time ago, pushing the loose strands away from her face. 

“I guess I have.”

The sudden tattoo of footsteps on the stairs startles her; when she looks up, she sees Sarah making her way down the stairs. The other woman’s presence only partially surprises her, since she’s been in the lair before, but it does seem odd to Felicity that Oliver isn’t with her. He must have given her the code for the door. 

Sarah stops just before stepping off the last step, her eyes widening imperceptibly when she sees Felicity. “Hi,” she says finally.

Felicity swallows to clear her throat. “Hi.”

The space below the club has always felt open to Felicity, large and spacious; right now, however, it’s starting to feel like the walls are closing in on her and the ceiling is about to cave. She hasn’t seen Digg or Sarah since that night with Slade, and now that they’re both in her presence she’s having a hard time keeping her thoughts from sliding back to those events she’s trying so hard to forget. 

Felicity almost calls it cruelty when the side door opens to admit Oliver. She looks from Sarah to Oliver as her lungs constrict and she blinks furiously in an attempt to clear her vision. The basement is too small, too tight, and she sweeps to her feet so quickly that her chair smacks into the computer table; she can’t stand to be still for another moment. 

“Felicity,” Oliver says soothingly, putting up one of his hands in the space before him, “just take a deep breath, okay? Felicity.”

This is ridiculous, she chides herself, balling her hands into fists until her nails are cutting into her palms. These are my friends. Stop doing this. 

But it doesn’t stop and her chest feels too full of something nameless, and she doesn’t know what to do. Felicity trains her eyes on Oliver, who hasn’t moved but looks like it’s physically paining him not to. She thinks of the way he’d held her earlier, how unbearable his presence had been up until the very moment that he’d touched her; how he’d made her feel grounded for the first time in days. She takes a step toward him, and then another, until he’s close enough to touch. Felicity doesn’t reach for him, but she angles herself so that his outstretched hand brushes over her shoulder. He understands what she hasn’t said and raises his other hand, until both are resting on her biceps. 

“Breathe,” Oliver instructs, taking a deep breath himself as if to demonstrate. 

She patterns her breathing after his. His hands are warm through the fabric of the grey sweater he’d given her to wear, and she centers her attention on a spot in the middle of his chest as she forces everything else aside. 

“Better?” Oliver asks once her panic has subsided.

She nods. “Thanks.”

Sarah has moved off the stairs and is next to Diggle when Felicity turns her attention away from Oliver. Neither of them look disturbed by her anxiety attack; Sarah smiles at her kindly, and Digg gives her a wink before moving away.

“I don’t want to upset you,” Sarah begins, stepping toward her. “I just want to say thank you. And maybe give you a hug, if you feel up to it?”

Felicity can’t help but smile at the way the other woman’s voice rises at the end of the question, and the silly quirk of her lips. “I think I could go for a hug.”

Sarah pulls her into a tight embrace and holds her for a while. Felicity gets the strangest sense that she’s trying to fortify her, like Sarah is trying to channel some of her energy and strength into Felicity; the idea might be a little crazy, but it makes her feel better to think so, so she does. 

“I know it seems impossible,” Sarah whispers next to her ear. “But you will get through this, okay? I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

She pulls back and looks Felicity in the eye, who smiles a little and nods minutely as she murmurs her thanks. Felicity isn’t certain how much help she will need - does need - or if Sarah could give it, but it makes her feel better to know that she’s willing to try. They may not know each other well, but Felicity genuinely likes the youngest Lance sister, and is thankful to have her around. She feels a little guilty for not asking Sarah how she’s doing, and maybe even asking about Laurel, but she’s not sure how much more socializing she can handle right now. Felicity’s willing to bet that Sarah won’t hold it against her. 

Oliver hasn’t moved when Felicity focuses on him again. She swallows the urge to fidget, wishing that she could understand what’s going on with her and why her reactions to him fluctuate between trepidation and relief. Oliver looks the same as he did a week, or a month, or a year ago, even; still, sometimes when she looks at him now, Felicity feels like she’s seeing him anew. He’s still her friend - the man who leapt out of a window for her - but there are so many things about him that she doesn’t know. Felicity has always accepted the possibility that she may never know him completely, but now … now she wants to ask questions that it might hurt him to answer. 

“You should go home.” He says it like a statement, but it sounds like a veiled question to her. Does she want to stay? 

“Yeah.”

Neither of them move. Felicity drops his gaze to look down and watch her hand disappear as she pulls it up into the sleeve that’s too long. Oliver had given her his grey zip up hours ago, when she’d taken off the green hood and then shivered in the cold air. He hadn’t said anything about her temporary theft of half of his vigilante outfit, and she hadn’t brought it up, but looking at the grey sweater now makes her feel like she should.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity says softly. “About, ya know, wearing her hood. Your hood. Whatever. I just …”

“You don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?” She’s so surprised by his admission that her head snaps up almost painfully so that she can look him in the eyes. He looks sincere enough. 

Oliver shuffles his feet and stuffs both hands into his pants pockets in a move reminiscent of Diggle. Felicity has seen him do it before, but the way he does it now makes her think that he’s fighting off nervousness. 

“I don’t know what Slade told you.” He stops there. His jaw clenches and the muscles of his arms flex; he looks angry, or uncomfortable, and then schools his expression into a more neutral one before continuing. “Maybe, when you’re up to it, I could … tell you about Shado.”

Felicity exhales, surprised and relieved in equal measure. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “really. Better late than never, right?”

She watches his face contort as he says that last part, but she doesn’t understand why; his expression is that of someone who has just swallowed something that burns on the way down, like a too strong shot of whiskey that doesn’t agree with him. 

“I’m sorry, that was the wrong thing to say,” he corrects quickly.

“It was?” she questions, confused.

“Well.” He waves his hand through the air in front of him, as if to dispel his words, or maybe he thinks that the movement will somehow trigger her understanding. It doesn’t. “Never mind. You okay to drive home?”

Home. She’d forgotten about that. “Yeah.”

Felicity reaches for the zipper of the sweater so she can take it off and return it, but Oliver surprises her by stepping closer and putting two fingers on the back of her hand.

“It’s cold. Just bring it back later.”

Felicity nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

She retrieves her keys and looks around for Digg and Sarah so she can say goodbye, but both of them seem to have disappeared. She makes Oliver promise to tell them for her before starting for the door, only to hear Oliver call her name.

“Walk you out?”

It’s still fairly early in the day - she can’t believe she’s been here for so long - but she knows she’ll feel better if he goes, so Felicity accepts the invitation and they head for her car together. 

Oliver doesn’t ask her if he’ll see her again any time soon, which she’s grateful for. He stands quietly next to her door while she slides into her seat and starts the car, one hand in his pocket. He looks a little better, but she can still see the strain of everything that’s happened in the lines around his eyes and mouth. They’ve been through a lot, and for a moment Felicity feels that familiar concern for him flare up behind her sternum. She welcomes it, relieved to feel something outside the numbness that plagues her now, and spares just a moment to hope that Sarah might be right, and she might make it through this.

It’s on the drive home that Felicity finally understands Oliver’s earlier apology. “Better late than never”, he’d said, and now his dismay at his words made sense: he blamed - blames himself for what happened, because maybe, if he had just talked to her earlier, none of this would have happened.

As far as Oliver is concerned, Slade Wilson would never have had a reason to take her - to do his best to poison Felicity against Oliver - if Oliver had just been honest with her from the beginning. 

Felicity spends the rest of the evening trying to decide whether or not she agrees with him.


	7. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter! Thank you to everyone who has read this; I hope you've enjoyed it.

Felicity has been living her life in numbers. She thinks that Slade started some sort of clock for her, a countdown of her life and the moments that define it; Felicity hates it. Now, when she thinks back on her life of before, it has a timeless quality to it. Time has always mattered - it always will, to creatures who are gifted with only a limited supply of it - but it had flowed so smoothly before; she had marked its passage, but not like this. Now, Felicity can’t help feeling like she’s lurching through the days, rather than gliding. She can’t get the numbers out of her head: six days with Slade, four in the hospital, five with her family … the clock has started, and now all Felicity hears is the ticking. If there is a way to make it stop, then she does not know of it. 

A full seven days passes before Felicity can work up the courage to call Oliver. She’s devoted many hours of thought to the contemplation of a woman that she’ll never meet, and when she finally picks up the phone it’s because she needs to know. She needs to know whatever Oliver remembers; whatever he will tell her. 

Oliver rarely looks nervous, but when she opens her front door to let him into her apartment, that’s the only way she can describe it. His hands are stuffed in his pockets again. Oliver looks much younger as he stands quietly in her home - more like the boy she imagines sailed away on his family yacht, and less like the vigilante businessman she’s come to care about. 

“Are you hungry?” Felicity asks as she leads him to the couch. “I just ordered a pizza. Got here right before you did.”

“No, thanks.”

Now that he’s here, Felicity doesn’t know where to start, or how. She wrings her hands together as they sit down on her couch, then realizes what she’s doing and forces herself to stop. Oliver leaves an entire cushion of space between them, which doesn’t seem like much in relation to his size. Felicity tucks her feet up beneath her; Oliver rests his forearms on his thighs and leans forward - away from her. She can’t decide if the position is meant to block her out, or something else in. 

Felicity knows that whatever question she asks is going to hurt him. Any answer he gives will be new information for her, a second-hand story drained of any emotion that experience would give it; there will be no such mercy for Oliver. A story for her is a memory for him, and she knows him well enough to know that time may have taken the sting out of it, but not the weight. She shifts her legs beneath her, uncomfortable with the knowledge that this conversation is going to hurt him - and that she fully intends to have it anyway. A big part of Felicity hopes that there’s some part of Oliver that wants to share the memories with her - that wants to tell her about Shado - because he had offered to tell her about the other woman, and he had came when she called. So maybe, just maybe, they’ll both be able to gain something from the experience. 

“Um.” What a great start, Felicity chides herself. 

Oliver tucks his chin down, into his chest, so that his voice is muffled when he speaks. “You want to know about Shado.”

It’s not a question. “Please,” Felicity says quietly. 

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Felicity envies Oliver’s ability to remain motionless for so long. 

“Shado was … brave. And patient. I loved her, and … I couldn’t save her.”

Felicity doesn’t interrupt him. Oliver doesn’t move from his hunched over position so she closes her eyes and focuses on his voice and the picture he’s painting for her. She lets the gravity and tremors in his tone fall away; all that matters is the story he’s telling and the woman that Felicity can never know. 

The longer she listens, the more certain Felicity becomes that Shado would have been someone that she would have liked to know. Not for the first time - or even the hundredth - Felicity wishes that life had worked out differently for all of them. What sort of people would they have been if the island had never happened?

Oliver tells her about Shado, about how he hadn’t known she’d existed until Yao Fei had worked to free her from the men holding her; he tells her about Shado’s smile and how in control she always seemed, and how he’d been oblivious to Slade’s feelings for her until it was too late. He tells her about Shado in ways that have less to do with words and more to do with the emotions that still color them, all these years later. Hearing Oliver talk about Shado makes Felicity wonder how he would have talked about her if he hadn’t been able to save her. What sort of effect has she had on his life, she wonders. What sort of lasting impression would she leave?

Would she leave one at all?

“I’m sorry.”

Felicity’s eyes snap open. Oliver hasn’t moved, his back is still to her, but he’s raised his head and seems to be staring at one of the paintings on her wall.

“What?” 

He sounds so sincere, but she’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. 

“For everything. For bringing you into all this, for putting you in danger, for Slade. I thought I could protect you. That we could protect you.”

A lot of Felicity’s life has been disturbed - turned on its head - in the last few weeks. Many of the things that she had taken for granted as immutable truths have been shaken to their foundations; all of her certainties have become variables. Despite this, and the struggles that she has been fighting her way through recently, there is one thing that has remained the same; one truth that she whole heartedly believes in. 

“Oliver.” She uncurls herself and leans forward, reaching out to put a hand on the curve of his back. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Slade only went after you because he wanted to hurt me.”

“I’m not just talking about me. You aren’t responsible for anyone’s actions but your own. What happened to Shado was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault. And I’m sure she’d tell you the same, if she could.”

“You can’t know that, Felicity.”

“Not with complete certainty, no,” she agrees. “But from what you’ve told me of Shado, I’m willing to bet that I’m not wrong.”

“I chose to save Sarah. Why wouldn’t Shado blame me?”

“Because I don’t.”

Oliver finally glances at her over his shoulder. Felicity feels like she should offer him some sort of smile, to reassure him maybe, but she can’t form her lips into the proper figure. Truthfully, she doesn’t feel smiling; she doesn’t want Oliver to hurt, but nothing about their conversation merits something even close to a grin. Instead, she slides her hand down his back a little in a tiny imitation of a soothing rub and cocks her head until their eyes meet. 

“No one could have made that choice, Oliver. It was impossible, and Slade Wilson knew that. And so did Shado.”

And so does Felicity. The moment that she’d understood what Slade was going to do she’d known that it was an impossible situation, and that any outcome would irreparably damage someone - namely Oliver. The man with the eyepatch hadn’t cared about anything but the loss that would have been left in his wake; the same loss that he had undoubtedly lived with for all those years. A loss that he hadn’t been able to reconcile, and had eventually given himself over to. 

That’s the difference between Oliver and Slade Wilson. One had let Shado’s loss consume him; the other has found a way to make her death mean something. Oliver has incorporated Shado’s memory into his quest to be a better man - to save the city he loves - and Felicity knows that there is no higher honor from Oliver Queen. 

“I hope you’re right,” Oliver says quietly. He straightens and turns a little in his seat to look at her more fully, her hand sliding off of his back as he does so. “I won’t blame you if you want out, Felicity. I can leave right now and you don’t ever have to see me again, or come back to the club. You can have your old job in IT back, or you don’t even have to come back to QC. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

Part of the reason Felicity has been staying away - from the lair, from Oliver and Sarah and Digg - is because she’s been asking herself that very question. What do I need? She’s been trying to figure out not only what she wants, but what she needs to repair the damage that has been done. Finding balance is a challenge, because there are so many answers that Felicity just doesn’t have; she doesn’t know exactly what’s been damaged. Sometimes she feels like Slade’s shadow is worse than those six days in his actual presence were, because she doesn’t know how to fight off a shadow. 

Now here Oliver is, telling her that he’ll give her whatever she needs; even if what she needs is for him to disappear. 

But that’s not what she needs, and it’s not what she wants. 

“I need … pizza. And a movie.”

Oliver is startled by her answer, both eyebrows rising toward his hairline as he regards her. “Okay,” he says, drawing out the last syllable. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Felicity had refused her family’s offer to stay with her because she was frightened that they would be in danger just by being around her. She has cut herself off from almost everyone outside of the little circle of vigilantes and accomplices that she’s surrounded herself with. Watching Oliver stand to leave makes her think of Sarah and the way she’d hugged her; it makes her think of Sarah’s reassurance that Felicity would be okay, and that they were there if she needed them. 

Felicity does; she does need them, even if she doesn’t always have a full of understanding of why or how they can help. 

“Or you could pick a movie?”

Oliver stands in the space in front of her for long moments, studying her as if her words have a double meaning that he’s trying to ferret out. 

“Are you sure?”

This time Felicity does smile. She pulls herself to her feet, standing several inches shorter than she usually does with her shoes, and has to crane her head back to look up at him. Oliver still makes her nervous in ways that he didn’t before; Felicity doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to look at him again without feeling the terrifying weightlessness of falling, but she hopes so. 

No matter how broken Felicity feels; no matter how she worries about whether or not she’ll find a way through this mess; no matter how frightened she is; there is one thing that she still has, one shining beacon that can guide her like a lighthouse in a storm: hope.

Slade Wilson had tried to destroy her. A man she had never met had kidnapped her and tried to poison her against the man she … well, a man she cared about. Slade had tried to rewrite the things that Felicity knew about Oliver - about herself; in some ways, he had succeeded. But as Felicity takes a ginger step forward, into Oliver’s personal space, and feels his arms come up to clasp her against his chest in a hug, she knows that Slade has ultimately failed. 

What happened to her isn’t Oliver’s fault. She may have doubted him - maybe even still does, a little - but she believes in him, and she has hope; not only for Oliver, but for all of them. Hope for herself, that she will eventually heal and shake off the memory of the man with the eye patch. 

Slade has failed, not because he’s dead, but because he hadn’t accounted for all that Felicity has: a loving family, good friends, and, most importantly - hope. 

“Pick something lighthearted, okay?” she mutters into Oliver’s shirt. 

Oliver’s chuckle is like thunder beneath her cheek. “Okay.”


End file.
